i wanted to write a poem
about the moon
before it got too fat
and fell all silvery from the sky

but i am god
and being
god is hard work

i left the words
in favor of grace
and hope and other (even sillier) things
(like love)

the moon, she falls
again tonight
like a crust of bread
or an angel

i ask creation for a moment
— it is so difficult
to be responsible
for everything right
(and wrong)

an empty book
remembers what I’d have written
and leaves me
holier than though
(laughing at myself — and of course
my own benediction)

i was minding my thoughts
there about the melting snow
in close proximity to christmas

a not-quite-star pushing bright
through the not-quite cloud
— this is love

i wanted to think
but there’s no thinking
when the night hasn’t started

i reached for my camera
but remembered i can’t take a picture
of anything that’s not quite anything

the real clouds came in
before the real stars
and the darkness decided it was time

to let me think
all the things I shouldn’t think
— but it’s night, and everyonw knows
i will